


Perfectly Fine

by cabintardlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Appendicitis, Doctor John Watson, Kink Meme, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Whump, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Worried John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabintardlock/pseuds/cabintardlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock gets appendicitis, he doesn't recognize the symptoms and tries his best to hide it from John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme, and beta'd by the lovely [Erynne](http://erynnem22.tumblr.com/), thank you for being an angel and helping with all my numerous grammar mistakes!

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

Sherlock flinched, turning his head a fraction of a second slower than normal and looking at John through half-lidded eyes. He had been glancing out the window of the cab, mentally running through the resolved case one more time, when the pain started. It wasn't an unbearable pain by any means, just a dull ache around his navel, but the onset was surprisingly quick. Sherlock hadn't had abdominal pain for a long time; his body had adjusted to his erratic and often unhealthy eating habits, so he never really experienced “normal” stomach problems.

“Of course, I'm okay John. What's the cause for your incessant worrying this time?” he drawled, shifting his eyes to the flickering of London's lights as they flashed by. It wasn't anything to be concerned over, just a trifling ache. Surely it would fade soon enough.

“You looked like you were in pain. Did you injure yourself during the chase? You might've hit your head when you tackled the suspect,” John said, leaning over to get a better look at Sherlock, his eyes narrowed.

Sherlock waved John off, fixedly not turning towards him. He didn't want to talk about it; he just wanted to get back to the flat and be alone.

“Sherlock... Will you at least let me look you over when we get back?” John implored, sighing and returning his eyes to a small spot on the seat when he was met with silence.

They passed the rest of the ride in silence, each staring at their respective windows, John half-sulking and Sherlock trying his utmost to will the pain away. As the cab pulled up to the curb, Sherlock jumped out before it could come to a full stop, only stumbling for a moment as his feet hit the sidewalk. He fumbled with the key and was through the door before John could step out of the cab.

Staring after Sherlock in a mixture of confusion and annoyance, John pulled out his worn wallet and pulled out money for the cab driver. He held it out distractedly, letting the cab driver grab for it when he held the wad of notes not quite inside the cab window.

“Hey, your friend really did look like he was hurting. You should probably take him to a doctor or something. It could be serious.” the cabbie said as John made to leave.

John turned just his head to look at him, saying, “Yes, thank you, but I _am_ a doctor.”

He managed a polite smile before he turned and followed Sherlock. John hunched his shoulders and braced for the argument with Sherlock, but he was determined to take a look at Sherlock before the inevitable post-case crash. It was just like his friend to ignore a possibly serious injury. Hell, he could have broken bones and Sherlock wouldn't admit he was in pain.

“Sherlock?” he called, not seeing Sherlock in their living room.

After checking the couch, he went to Sherlock's bedroom and knocked quietly on the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for an answer that didn't come. John had never seen the inside of Sherlock's room, so he was a bit wary as he cracked open the door (which seemed to make an inordinately loud squeaking sound when opened).

Sherlock's bedroom wasn't what John was expecting. Actually, he didn't know _what_ he expected it to be like. He probably expected something with books and papers strewn everywhere, with maybe a few experiments mixed in, the kind of organized chaos that he associated Sherlock with. It was a pretty tidy room, with a simple wardrobe, a couple frames on the wall, one of them containing the periodic table, and nothing on the floor. In the middle of the room was Sherlock's bed, with Sherlock himself wrapped up in a messy cocoon of sheets.

“Hey, Sherlock?” he said, falteringly inching closer to the curled up shape on the bed. “I just want to check that you don't have a concussion or anything, okay?”

Sherlock rolled over to glare at John, who was currently standing in the middle of Sherlock's room, looking a bit lost. He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock look so...small.

“I'm just sleep-deprived. Now, will you please leave and find someone else to satisfy your mother hen complex?” Sherlock hissed.

John shook his head and left without a word, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him until he shut the door behind him. Sherlock was probably right; he hadn't hit his head at all, and John just worried too much. He wandered over to his armchair, opening up his laptop and checking his blog. He didn't make much progress in typing up their new case, half of his mind still worrying over Sherlock.

John mentally berated himself for worrying so much. Sherlock was a grown man who could take care of himself, and he was perfectly fine.

* * *

 Quite a while later, Sherlock stumbled from his bed where he'd had no luck in falling asleep for however long it'd been and into the bathroom. His knees gave out and he fell to the ground in front of the toilet, wave after wave of nausea flooding his senses, and he couldn't find it in himself to get back up.

He had this vague feeling that if he just expelled everything from his system, he'd feel so much better, but he could barely move. Coughing, no matter how feeble, only served to amplify the pain, which had now drifted towards the lower right area of his abdomen and significantly sharpened. All he could do was clutch the edges of the toilet and try to keep as still as possible as his stomach rejected itself.

As the deluge of nausea lessened (but didn't fully leave, no), he managed to struggle to his feet, unsure of where he was going. He stumbled out of the room, his feet not wanting to cooperate with each other, heading towards the living room. All he could think was to find John. John would make everything better.

Sherlock reached the living room and laid himself down very carefully onto the couch, looking around and finding no John. It was for the better, he told himself, after the initial rush of disappointment. He didn't want John to see him in such a pitiful state.

John stayed for one reason only, and that was for the danger. Adrenaline junkies needed their fix just like any other addict, and Sherlock provided that for him. If he were to see Sherlock in such a normal, pathetic state of being, surely John would lose all interest. It wasn't that John disliked normal, as evidenced by his slew of boring girlfriends; it just wasn't what he needed from Sherlock.

Sherlock was an enigma, a mystery. Everyone knew that once a mystery is solved, it loses all of its intrigue.

He thought back to his old adage that 'breathing is boring', and realized how wrong he was. Breathing wasn't boring. Breathing was torture.

Curling up on the sofa, too busy suppressing nausea to realize that he was shaking, he resolved to move back to his room in just a minute. As soon as the pain eased, he would move.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again beta'd by the wonderful [Erynne](http://erynnem22.tumblr.com/)! I know it's a bit soon after the last chapter, but oh well, right?

John repeated to himself that Sherlock was just fine, and that there was no reason to worry. Sherlock had been locked up in his bedroom for almost 16 hours, but that was normal behavior after a case.

He trudged down the stairs, trying to step as lightly as possible, mentally cursing the fact that he'd gotten the upstairs bedroom. Having to go all the way down the stairs, making enough noise to wake the whole of London every time he wanted a cuppa, was an inconvenience to say the least.

Making a beeline for the kettle, John had it heating up before he noticed Sherlock laying on the couch. John approached him as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake him up if he was sleeping. Getting closer to him, John realized there was something wrong.

Sherlock was still in his full suit, yet he was shivering, and his face was oddly flushed. He was curled up around himself as if he was trying to preserve body heat. He didn't seem to be sleeping, but he hadn't noticed John yet.

“Sherlock?” John said as he knelt down next to the couch.

Sherlock's eyes shot open and widened as they saw John. He turned his head away from John and very slowly rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Something you need, John?” he said, talking through short gasps of breath, almost as if just breathing was painful.

“Sherlock, you look really sick. I'm worried. Can I take your temperature?”

“Do what you want,” Sherlock said, removing his arm, but still not looking John in the eye.

John pressed his wrist to Sherlock's forehead, sighing when he realized it wasn't going to work. His hands were still warmer than normal from the kettle. Sherlock had filched all of his thermometers for some experiment a while back, so he couldn't use one of those either.

John smiled as he thought of a solution. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over Sherlock's forehead for just a second, feeling Sherlock tense up under him.

“Definitely a fever,” he announced as he pulled back, resisting the urge to smirk at Sherlock's shocked expression.

“What was that for?” Sherlock demanded, looking a tad bit more flushed than before.

“Lips have many nerve endings, you know, very effective for checking temperatures,” John said, smiling a bit before slipping into doctor mode. “What other symptoms are you experiencing? Any pain anywhere in your body? Headaches, sore throat, nausea, anything like that?”

“Yes, actually, a rather severe headache from your inane prattling. Leave me alone. I'm not horribly sick, so it'll pass soon,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Fine, but I'm still going to keep an eye on you, because it could be something bad. Tell me if you have any other symptoms, okay?”

Sherlock didn't answer. He just looked away and tried not to show John how much pain he was in.

* * *

 “Sherlock, can you please just roll over?”

“Why?” Sherlock mumbled, resolutely facing his back towards John.

“I need to examine you, Sherlock, it's been a few hours and I need to see if your fever has gone down,” he said through gritted teeth, wishing that his flatmate didn't act like a grade schooler. He got enough of those at work.

“Can't you just do it like this?”

“It's rather difficult to look over someone who is facing away from you, Sherlock.” he said, trying to be as patient as possible, since Sherlock was still trembling and sounded absolutely miserable.

“I'm sure you can figure it out. You should know how to deal with difficult patients,” Sherlock mumbled into the cushion of the sofa, not budging an inch.

“Yes, but I never expected it from a friend that I'm worried about,” John muttered.

He reached over Sherlock awkwardly and felt his forehead, sighing at how warm it was. The fever hadn't gone down in the least. If anything, it'd gotten warmer, but he couldn't know for sure without a thermometer.

“Are you experiencing any other symptoms beside the chills?”

“Nothing that should concern you.”

John sighed and raked his hand through greying hair. Every once in a while, when Sherlock was being especially aggravating, John thought Sherlock was at least partially responsible for the white hairs on his head. This was one of those times.

“Listen, will you be fine on your own while I run to the store? I need to pick up a few supplies, since a certain consulting detective used up nearly my whole med kit for experiments.”

“I'm not a little kid, I can be left alone. In fact, that would probably be preferable.” Sherlock intoned, his voice missing most of it's usual bite.

“Alright, I'll be back soon.” John said, turning his head to look at Sherlock, shoulder popping as he pulled his coat on. “Remember, call me immediately if something happens, okay?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Erynne](http://erynnem22.tumblr.com/) again! This chapter's pretty short, I'll update again soon though!

As soon as the door closed, Sherlock lurched up, ignoring the painful protest in his stomach as he did. He rushed into the bathroom, crumbling to his knees before the porcelain bowl just as the heaving started.

It burned the whole way up. Stomach acid will do that, Sherlock told himself, but that didn't stop it from burning all the same. Even when there was nothing left in his stomach, he kept on retching until he was just spasming, mouth gaping as his stomach turned inside out.

When his stomach had settled, the stabbing pain made itself more noticeable. It was a jagged, piercing hurt that had only grown, and Sherlock was starting to get a bit concerned. He had figured it was nothing, but it didn't seem to be relenting. Running through the sicknesses stored in his mind, he couldn't seem to find one that fit his symptoms. Then again, he only stored useful or interesting diseases. Perhaps he should tell John after all.

Yes, he decided he was going to tell John. Sherlock just had to get to his phone in the living room, then he could call John.

He felt a bit bad for being so unaccommodating when John was trying to help him, but he just couldn't do what he'd asked for two reasons. The first was that no matter how great an actor Sherlock was, the lack of sleep and constant pain had worn him down, and he could do nothing to hide the discomfort from his face. Secondly, he just couldn't. Getting to the bathroom had been a huge amount of effort, and any movement at all only intensified the pain. All he could do to dampen the perpetual ache was to stay as still as possible. Still, he needed to get to his phone.

That was when another wave of nausea hit, and he found himself incapable of moving.

Between the bouts of nausea and dry-heaving, punctuated by short pain-filled respites, it was three hours before Sherlock was able to move from the cold, tiled floor.

* * *

 

“Say, you want to grab a cup of coffee with me?”

John's eyebrows shot up, taken quite by surprise. He hadn't expected to meet such a gorgeous woman in Tesco, of all places, and have her take an interest in him. An image of Sherlock, huddled up and shivering flashed, before his eyes, but he quickly dismissed it. Sherlock had said he was fine, and he would call him if something else happened.

“Sure, I'd love to.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween you lovelies!

Eva was a lovely woman, and John found himself quite taken by her. He was a bit ashamed to admit it, but it was mostly her looks. With her long frame, tumbling dark curls and pale skin, she wasn't John's usual type, but John found himself entranced by her features.

Still, Eva's personality was a bit, well, lacking. They'd been talking for about three hours, and it was rather hard to focus on her words. John had found that since Sherlock had stormed into his life, vibrant and bursting with energy, it was hard not to find everyone else a bit boring. In comparison, nothing was as interesting or as brilliant as Sherlock, but John would just have to adjust.

“Hmm? Sorry, I was out of it for a second,” John said when he realized she'd been talking.

“What, not interesting enough for you?” she giggled, leaning forward to touch his arm. “I was asking you if you wanted to come back to my place.”

“Oh, um...” John trailed off, mentally weighing the pros and cons. He should get home to Sherlock; he was still rather worried, but Eva did seem lovely.

John was torn from his thoughts by his phone buzzing. When he looked down and caught Sherlock's name on the screen, he nearly dropped his phone.

“Sorry, got to take this.” he muttered to Eva before stepping outside, answering the phone.

“Sherlock? You don't normally call.”

“Yes, I was unable to text. I need you to come back.”

“Why? Sherlock, what happened?”

“I'm not feeling all that well, and I need you here. I can't identify my illness, but it's gotten slightly worse.”

“Worse? How much worse? God, do you need hospital? What symptoms are you displaying right now?”

“John, I don't need your nattering. Just come back. I'm experiencing nausea, vomiting, and abdominal pains, as well as some difficulty moving.”

“Okay, I'll be there as soon as possible. And look, if you feel any worse, call an ambulance.”

“I hardly think it warrants such dramatics, John.”

With that, the dial tone beeped and John exhaled, pocketing his phone and turning back towards the café.

“So sorry, but I have to go. See you around?” John said, throwing a few bills on the table and ignoring the surprised and rather annoyed look on Eva's face. He knew he wouldn't see her again.

* * *

 

About thirty minutes after he'd called John (his fingers were shaking too much to text) Sherlock found himself feeling rather better. The intensity of the pain had alleviated somewhat, and he no longer felt perpetually nauseous. He could also walk without being doubled over in pain like before.

The abdominal pain hadn't completely faded away, nor had the fever and chills, but he felt much more functional. Sherlock almost felt bad for calling John back, he wouldn't have if he knew the sickness would fade so quickly.

That was when the door swung open and John rushed in, looking panicked. Sherlock startled; he hadn't heard John's footsteps on the stairs at all. Perhaps he was still a bit out of it.

No, he wasn't so “out of it” that he couldn't see the smudge of lipstick on John's cheek, or smell the floral perfume on him. Sherlock wondered how long John'd been out. He hadn't kept track of the time very well in his state. Apparently, it'd been long enough for John to chat up another trite floozy.

“Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you were experiencing other symptoms before?” he near-shouted as he made his way to the couch Sherlock was lounging on.

“They didn't matter before. I'm feeling better, so it hardly matters now.” Sherlock said, waving John away.

“Feeling better? How are you feeling better?”

“As in, the symptoms I was previously displaying have either significantly lessened or completely disappeared. On to more important matters. How long were you out?” Sherlock said, sitting up and staring (glaring, really) at John.

“What? About three and a half hours, does it matter?” John asked, rocking back with a confused expression on his face.

“And how much of that time was spent chatting up another dull woman?”

“We had coffee for a while, how did you know?”

“It's painfully obvious, John. You don't need to be me to see it. There is lipstick on your cheek and her perfume has permeated your jacket. It needs to be washed immediately.” Sherlock said, flopping back down on the couch.

“Washed? No, listen, you were still sick, and you didn't sound good on the phone. You said you were experiencing abdominal pains? Can I take a look?”

“They were minor, nothing to fuss over. Go do whatever it is you simpletons do and leave me be.” Sherlock said, staring unwaveringly at the ceiling.

John sighed and left without saying a word.

* * *

John should've been used to Sherlock's antics, but he still wasn't. He really didn't mind so much that Sherlock had interrupted him; he didn't see a future with Eva anyways. Still, if only Sherlock knew how scared John had been after he'd gotten that phone call. How much he snapped at the cabbie to go faster, and how he practically ran into the building.

A million pictures had run through his head of Sherlock being sick, Sherlock dying, and John had panicked. He felt that shot of adrenaline (not the kind of adrenaline he thrived off of) leave his system, and he just felt drained.

Sometimes, Sherlock was just too much for him.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock recalled the panic on John's face when he had first arrived, and he felt a bit guilty that he had caused that for no reason. Sherlock knew what it was like to be that scared.

When John was shot in the leg (three inches from the femoral artery), Sherlock had panicked. It was simply unacceptable that John be taken away from him, so it was a horrifying moment for Sherlock. He felt bad if he caused even a bit of the same myriad of terror for John.

That was why Sherlock was currently fixing up a cuppa for John. It was chamomile, which was supposedly good for stress. The tea bag had split open, but surely that didn't matter. Sherlock recalled something about loose leaf tea being more rich and flavorful, so it would only make the tea better.

He picked up the cup–John's RAMC mug, of course–and started up the stairs to John's room when it hit. Distantly he could feel the glass slip from his hands, could hear the mug shatter, but he wasn't paying attention to any of that. Sherlock could only pay attention to the all-encompassing pain that spread like wildfire all throughout his stomach. It made him want to tear himself apart.

* * *

 

John heard glass shattering and sighed. Sherlock had probably shattered something in one of his experiments, which wasn't a rare occurrence. Still, he'd probably check to make sure Sherlock was okay.

When John opened his door, he found a sight that made his breath catch in his chest. Sherlock was slumped on the stairs, the remains of a shattered glass littering the steps around him. For one irrational, frozen moment, John saw Sherlock in a coffin, surrounded by thorned white roses.

“John?” Sherlock mumbled, shattering the strange image in John's mind. “Apologies for breaking your favorite mug. I'm sure it can be replaced, but it did have sentimental value.”

“Nevermind that, Sherlock. What happened? Are you okay?” John exclaimed, working his way around the glass shards to examine Sherlock.

“Yes, well, the pain seems to have returned.”

“Okay, where do you feel the pain? How long have you experienced this pain?” John said as he checked Sherlock's vitals.

“It used to be centered around the lower right area of my abdomen, but it has since spread to the rest of my stomach. The pain started approximately 26 hours ago, and apart from a small lull, has consistently worsened. It's especially painful at the moment, which I wasn't expecting.” Sherlock said, not moving from his slumped position.

“Christ,” John muttered as he mentally went over all the symptoms. “Can you sit up? I need to examine your stomach.”

Sherlock didn't reply. Shifting round onto his elbows, he slowly lifted himself up. It looked painful, and as he sat up, Sherlock was breathing a bit heavier.

“Good. Now can you unbutton your shirt or do you want me to?”

Sherlock made a waving motion that John took to mean go ahead. Unbuttoning his shirt, John could only look with worry at the slight bloating of Sherlock's stomach, and try to ignore the slight fluttering of his own stomach. He was a professional, goddamnit.

Once Sherlock's shirt was open, John carefully pressed on the lower right area of his stomach, eliciting a sharp pain-filled gasp of from Sherlock as his muscles tightened. John snatched his hand away, brow furrowed as Sherlock let out a whimper. Rebound tenderness. He felt a wave of panic wash over him as he connected all of the symptoms.

“Sherlock, I think your appendix might have burst, we need to get you to a hospital as soon as possible. Where's your phone?” John said, scrambling up and trying to keep his voice steady.

“Don't bother, just call Mycroft. He'll get us there faster than anything else would.”

“All right, all right...” John mumbled as he grabbed for his phone with shaking fingers.

* * *

 

As John was fumbling at the numbers on his phone, Sherlock closed his eyes. Appendicitis, how could he have missed that? He didn't have much information on appendixes stored (useless organ) in his mind, but he still should've recognized it. Sherlock didn't have anything stored about after the appendix bursts. He made a mental note to read a few medical textbooks later.

Trying his best to ignore the renewed feelings of nausea that crept back upon him, he could hear John's rapid-fire voice relaying details to Mycroft. Sherlock wanted to reach out to John, to tell him to relax, but that would require painful movement.

Sherlock wasn't sure if keeping his eyes closed helped the nausea or if it worsened it. He didn't want to risk it, so he just kept his eyes closed. He felt John shaking him and saying something. Probably something important, but he was too focused on other, more important things. Like ensuring he didn't vomit all over himself. And trying to ignore the constant pain that wouldn't leave him be.

“Sherlock, the car is here. Can you walk?” John said, concerned voice coming from somewhere above Sherlock.

“Boring,” Sherlock mumbled, trying to elicit a laugh from John. John's laughs were his favorite, so warm. Maybe one of John's laughs would help with the ache.

John didn't laugh; he continued to practically radiate concern. Sherlock was sure there was a myriad of emotions displayed on John's open face, but Sherlock didn't see them. He didn't really want to see them, to know that he'd caused so much turmoil (the bad kind, not the exciting kind) for John.

“All right, I'm going to have to carry you then. It'll just be for a short distance. Is that fine with you?”

Sherlock didn't really enjoy the idea of being carried like a kid. Still, it meant he wouldn't have to open his eyes. He nodded minutely, not wanting to move any further. The horrible stabbing pain was not worth the motion.

Sherlock felt John's arms encircle him and pause, as if uncertain of how to pick him up.

“Get on with it.” Sherlock insisted, which did evoke a chuckle from John. Sherlock was aware that it was entirely sentimental and ridiculous, but it did feel as if some of the pain was alleviated. Perhaps it was just something about John that soothed Sherlock.

John picked him up in what he vaguely recalled was dubbed 'the princess hold'. Sherlock's head lolled back, shocked by the stab of pain that accompanied John's strong arms.

“Christ, you're way too tall for this,” John groused, making his way slowly towards the door so as not to jostle Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't bother to respond, he was busy trying to contain the surge of nausea that began as he started moving. Everything was spinning, and with every step he felt the revulsion creeping up the back of his throat. John was both his anchor and the catalyst of his nausea, which left Sherlock rather confused.

He heard a car door opening as John shifted him in his arms. Sherlock was placed carefully on the seat of the car as John climbed in across from him. Trust Mycroft to send a luxury car.

Sherlock was sure he was supposed to be thinking important thoughts, but all he could really think was that the cool leather felt like heaven against his burning skin.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, sorry!

“He's displaying all the symptoms of appendicitis; why can't you just admit him for surgery?”

“Sir, you have to understand that we have to determine if his appendix has burst and if there are further complications. We are currently administering a blood test and CT scan, and we should get the results in approximately 20 minutes. From there, we will proceed with whatever surgery is required. We're working as fast as we can to help Mr. Holmes,” the doctor explained to him slowly, like he was a child. No, like he was a civilian who hadn't gone to med school and worked as a doctor for years,

“Right, of course, sorry,” John said, his head hanging down as everything caught up to him.

“Hey, don't blame yourself,” the doctor said, obviously pitying John. “You couldn't have known what was happening. You're not a doctor, and most people don't know the symptoms of appendicitis.”

That hit him hard, and he felt the full weight of how truly stupid he'd been hit him. John was a doctor. He was Sherlock's doctor, and he was supposed to take care of him! But no, he'd dismissed all of the symptoms as nothing, even as Sherlock was suffering right in front of him. Sherlock had even listed all of the manifestations of appendicitis for him, the textbook indicators of the most common reason for surgery.

“I am a doctor,” he mumbled, too soft for the doctor to hear him.

“When Mr. Holmes' results come back, we'll let you know.” she said, nodding firmly at John before leaving.

John rested his head in his hands, going over all of the possible complications for appendicitis and appendectomies.

* * *

 

27 minutes later (John was counting the seconds) the same doctor approached him. John scanned her face, looking for any signs of what news she brought. He couldn't find any.

“The results have come back, and it shows that due to the burst appendix, Mr. Holmes has contracted peritonitis, which is an inflammation of the abdomen's lining.”

“Yes, I know, I...” John trailed off, fists clenched.

The doctor looked quizzically at him before continuing, “Due to the infection, he is currently being prepped for an open appendectomy. The operation should last between 1 and 2 hours, and you can see him right after the surgery in the ICU. We don't usually allow this, but these seem to be special circumstances. You can also stay beyond visiting hours in Mr. Holmes' room.”

“Sorry, special circumstances?”

“Yes, I was just informed by my higher-ups that you are to be granted these allowances.” she said, looking rather disgruntled.

“I see. Thank you,” John said, not knowing what else to say. He supposed that he should thank Mycroft later.

As the doctor left, John sighed and leaned forward in the uncomfortable hospital chair. Getting up, he decided to visit the cafeteria for some coffee. He had a long wait in front of him, after all.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Through a strange buzzing in his ears, Sherlock could hear John talking, though he couldn't make out any individual words. He just let the sound of John's voice wash over him, lulling him in and out of consciousness.

Eventually (it could've been minutes, it could've been hours), Sherlock started to hear John clearly, and was rather confused by his words.

“...nausea, lack of appetite, swelling of stomach, high fever... Complications...sepsis, infection spreads through the blood, can lead to septic shock...” John muttered, and the sound of him pacing echoed through the hospital room.

“John?” Sherlock murmured, opening his eyes to see John's blurry figure.

“Sherlock? You're awake,” John said, his face a tapestry of shifting emotions that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to catalog.

“Astute observation, John,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Sherlock... Christ, I don't know how to say this. I just can't believe I didn't notice what was happening before, I'm supposed to be your doctor. It's my fault you got an infection, it's because of my idiocy that this happened.” John said darkly, sitting on the chair next to Sherlock's bed.

“What?” Sherlock asked, more than a bit confused and still pretty heavily effected by the anesthesia. “Why would any of this be your fault?”

“I'm your doctor Sherlock! I'm supposed to notice things like this, it's my job.”

“No, you're my friend.” Sherlock stated simply. John was being ridiculous. “If I'd wanted a doctor, I would've hired a physician to stay in the flat. You don't have any obligations to me like that, I'm not part of your 'job'.”

John studied Sherlock closely before cracking a smile. “I still feel bad. If I had noticed, you wouldn't have to stay here for so long.”

“How long do I have to stay?” Sherlock asked, as he hadn't really been listening while the doctor had explained everything to him.

“Well, since you've got peritonitis, you'll need antibiotics for around 2 weeks, and they'll need to keep you here for observation. Also, recovery from peritonitis isn't pretty. No strenuous exercise for a while.”

Sherlock sighed heavily as he stared at the ceiling, already wishing it was the familiar ceiling of 221B. “At least you'll be here to suffer with me. You make things better.”

John sent him a quizzical look, saying slowly, “You're still pretty doped up, aren't you?”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock said, waving his hand in John's general direction.

“I'd hardly say it's irrelevant, you can barely keep your eyes open.”

Sherlock gave a start as he opened his eyes, not having realized they were closed.

“Just go to sleep, Sherlock.” John said warmly.

He shut his eyes, feeling everything drifting away. Sherlock felt himself saying something, but he couldn't be bothered to remember what. He had already slipped off into a soft, muted world, a last peaceful stupor before the drugs wear off and he'd have to wake up.

* * *

 

John's face was bright red as he stared at the now sleeping Sherlock. He told himself to ignore everything Sherlock said and did while in his still drugged state, but it was awful hard to ignore something like that. Where did something like that even come from?

He supposed if anyone else said that, it could possibly be construed as nothing. Actually, no, coming from pretty much anyone it would mean at least something. Coming from Sherlock, John really wasn't sure. Well, he had until Sherlock woke up again to figure it out.

_You are my everything..._

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these updates are pretty few and far between, sorry about that. I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's read this story! I'm also going back and editing the previous chapters, so that's why it's been so slow. Still, enjoy!

John woke up later, not aware that he'd fallen asleep, shifting in the hospital chair. As he sat up, he felt his neck and back protest at the movement, muscles stretching tight. He was far too old and out of shape to be sleeping in an uncomfortable chair.

Sherlock was still sleeping, and according to the clock, it had been a good ten hours since he'd last woken up. He looked strangely small, vulnerable almost, hooked up to the IV and the nasogastric tube. It was vaguely disconcerting.

John rested his hand lightly next to Sherlock's on the thin cotton sheet. This was all he could do, this was his small indulgence. He was allowed to be near Sherlock, but he could never touch him, never see past the hard exterior the detective put out. Even when he was sick and in pain, Sherlock hadn't come to John for help until quite a while into his sickness. This was all he could do.

* * *

 The next time he opened his eyes, he was greeted by strange sounds coming from the bed. John quickly knelt next to the bed and saw Sherlock twisting and turning, pained whimpers escaping his parted lips. His eyes were slitted open, but they weren't focused, and there was no flash of recognition as John came into view.

“Sherlock?” John asked, touching his shoulder lightly.

Sherlock's eyes opened the rest of the way as he looked at John, something flickering in his eyes.

“Where's the PCA; why haven't they upped your dose of the meds?” John said, looking around for the button.

“Addict, remember? I used to abuse morphine, and now they don't want to give me any sort of opioid. I suppose it's karma, or whatever they call it.” Sherlock huffed.

“God, that's not right. What's hurting you?” John muttered, hating to see Sherlock in pain.

“Well, I've got local....anesthesia on all surgical areas, and some minor painkillers, but the infection is still painful. They said it shouldn't take too long before the antibiotics...take effect, but it'll be a bit before the pain goes away. The doctors might put me on other painkillers, I'm not sure.” Sherlock mumbled between sharp intakes of air.

His eyes unfocused again, his muscles tensing as his hand involuntarily spasmed. John grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed, not knowing how to provide any more comfort. Sherlock's hand sat limply in John's, still shaking and damp.

“Sherlock, shh, it'll be okay. You just have to make it through this night, and people will probably visit you tomorrow, how's that? I'm sure you'll be annoyed, but being annoyed is better than this, right? Mrs. Hudson will be so fretful, and Molly will too, maybe Lestrade can bring by some cold cases... It'll all go back to normal soon.” John muttered, not paying attention to the words spilling from his mouth, eyes fixed on Sherlock's pained face. He wished he could do more than wipe away the sheen of sweat on Sherlock's forehead, that he could wipe away all the pain evident in the creased forehead.

“Please Sherlock, I'm so sorry, it'll all be fine. You have to recover soon, you have to, and you'll have such a quick recovery time. You're Sherlock Holmes, you're unstoppable, and you can't let a stupid mistake I made bring you down! Sherlock, I love you, so please...”

Anyone in the ICU that night could hear a string of rambles, getting more and more incoherent and slurred with exhaustion as the hours passed on. When the first ray of the sun glinted off the windows, the mumbling had stopped, and the only noise was the rustle of sheets and the slow, steady beat of the heart monitor.

* * *

 John's feet felt heavy as he walked to the nurse. The image of Sherlock looking so small, too small in the bed, fidgeting and curling into himself as his fists balled up the sheets beneath him haunting his thoughts. Reaching the desk, he tapped a couple times on the top to get the nurse's attention. She looked up quickly, bringing ink-smudged fingers up to adjust the glasses slipping off her face.

“What can I help you with, sir?” she recited, her glasses slowly sliding off her nose again in a movement that John found more irritating than he should have.

“Yes, I need to speak to a doctor about one of the patients, Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, tapping his fingers on the laminate.

“Do you know the name of the doctor?” she intoned, raising an eyebrow in a practiced move.

“Ahh, no, I didn't catch the name. Couldn't you look it up?” John said.

“One moment sir.” she sighed, turning to her computer. John felt rather sorry for her, working so early in the morning.

“Dr. Louis is treating Mr. Holmes. He's in the hospital now, is it very serious business?” she said after a couple minutes, breaking the rather awkward silence. The last part was said with a hopeful inflection, and it was obvious she didn't want to have to call the doctor down.

“Yeah, it is. Sorry.” John said, trying for a sympathetic smile, but it felt too stretched and insincere.

“Very well, if you'll just wait here, he'll be here to talk to you as soon as he can.” she dismissed John, motioning to the seats in the waiting room next to the desk.

John sat himself down in the plastic seat, feeling it dig into his legs and back. The slouched people occupying the waiting room around him looked, for the most part, rather haggard and worried. John supposed that was what he'd looked like before Sherlock had come out of surgery, and he still couldn't shake some of that worry. Sherlock was in pain, and he was sitting there doing nothing.

All there was to do was wait.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry, I have no excuse for how long this has taken! At least it's the end! Haha abrupt endings are the best right? Anyways I don't know if all of you grogeous people following this silly story are still here, but if you are there are no words. You are what finally made me write the end of this fic, and what motivated me though this whole process. Special special thanks to 1butterfly_grl1 for sticking with me since chapter 1, but everyone who has reviewed has my love. Without further ado, the end!

Blinding light was the first thing Sherlock saw; his eyes quickly scrunching closed. He could still see the yellow light behind his eyelids, which felt like weights. Something in his mind chimed in that the painkillers and remnants of the anesthesia might still be in his system, but he truly didn't care. He forced his eyes open bit by bit, slanting them away from what he realized was the window.

Glancing over at John, he found him slumped in his chair, sleeping fitfully. John's brow was furrowed and the lines in his face seemed deeper than normal; he was sleeping with his shoulders slouched forward and his hands gripping the arms of the chair.

Sherlock looked around the room, taking in the details for the first time with a fully-operating brain. Sunlight streamed into the room in stripes through the blinds, illuminating the spacious room. Mounted on the wall was a too-large, rather tacky looking flat-screen and the bed was a full queen size with plush blankets. His nose wrinkled slightly, the way it always did when his brother pulled favors for him.

“John?” Sherlock croaked, clearing his throat when his voice came out croaky.

Twitching in his chair, John brought his eyes up to meet Sherlock's. His eyes softened as he saw Sherlock sitting upright in his bed. Sherlock noticed John's hands twitching, almost as if he was about to reach over and touch him.

“Sherlock! I'm glad you're awake again. Feeling any better?”

“Yes, it doesn't hurt as much as it did before. I don't really have much energy, but I'm sure that's normal. Have you been here this whole time?” Sherlock asked as he reached a hand up to rearrange his curls. There were no mirrors, but he was sure his hair looked dreadful.

“I managed to talk to your doctor and get you on an alternate type of pain reliever. It isn't as effective as the opiates might be, but it should help.” John said, running a hand through his own hair as he blatantly sidestepped answering the query.

“John, you didn't answer my question.” Sherlock prodded.

“Well, of course I was here. I couldn't exactly leave you.” John said, wearing a strange smile. His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere but Sherlock.

“Alright.” Sherlock said, unsure of what else to say. He couldn't help the warm feeling he got from John's admission.

“I'd better go talk to Mrs. Hudson, she's probably worried out of her mind. She really cares for you, I'll tell her you can take visitors soon. I'm sure Mycroft is getting updates in real time on your condition.” John said, nearly knocking the chair over as he stood.

“Wait, John. One more thing...” Sherlock said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as John watched him expectantly. He tried to pour all of his sincerity into his voice, everything he couldn't bring himself to tell John. “Thank you.”

John smiled, his eyes crinkling just a bit as he looked at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, you're going to be fine. I promise.”

* * *

 

Sherlock wobbled on his feet as he got out of the taxi, the familiar sight of 221B relieving some of the tension in his body. Two weeks was too long to be away from his home, even with John constantly at his side. John had been the only thing comforting him in the white walls of his hospital room, when he was sure that he would rip his hair out from boredom. He'd always been there, warm and kind and sometimes snippy and absolutely not boring.

Even at that moment, standing on the concrete, John was by his side.

“Let's go then.” Sherlock said, nodding toward the door. These were the first steps he'd taken since hospitalized, not counting the one step from his wheelchair to the waiting cab. Standing felt like he was on stilts, and he felt like a million hands were grabbing at him, weighing him down, but he tried to look confident.

He took slow, shuffling steps with John beside him, eyes dark with worry and arms out and ready to catch him. Sherlock would have scoffed, but he found that it took too much concentration. He'd noticed in the hospital that everything seemed sluggish and hard to do, and that whenever he tried to do most anything, he found his whole body trembling with the effort. Sherlock thought it might get better once he was outside, but it was the opposite effect.

“Come on Sherlock, we're at the door. Just a bit more.” John's whispered encouragement penetrated his focus and made him stumble a bit before righting himself. He caught himself on the knocker, hanging onto the cool metal as John unlocked the door.

Sherlock managed to stumble his way onto the step before he collapsed, his head fuzzy from such a small physical act. He looked at John with eyes wide, head clunking against the banister.

“Tell me I'll be fine now.” Sherlock joked, trying to hide the upsurge of doubt. How could he do anything anymore? Even lifting his head felt like so much work, and his hands shook so much he doubted he could do anything with them. How could he ever go on any cases again? What if it took years to get better? What if it never happened?

“Sherlock.” John's voice cut through his thoughts, and Sherlock realized his face was very close. He didn't even have time to think before he felt himself moving his head up and pressing his lips to John's. Sherlock didn't know if he could move if he wanted to, but he didn't. He just kept his lips closed and pressed to John's, mind moving a million miles a minute with the only thought registering was that _John wasn't pulling away._

Reluctantly, he pulled away (or at least that's how he would tell it later. He would never say it was just because he couldn't hold his head up for any longer.) John dipped his head down to look Sherlock in the eyes.

“I told you that you would be fine, Sherlock. I promised, but it won't be easy. There'll be lots of physical therapy and pain and needing to be helped before you can say that you're 'better'. And even then, you'll have some bad days. But you will be fine, and I'll be here to suffer with you every step of the way, okay?”

“I don't know what I did to deserve you.” Sherlock murmured, leaning into the hand that had found it's way to his cheek.

“You deserve much more than me Sherlock.” John said. “We have a lot to talk about, I know, but for now you should sleep.”

Sherlock nodded his agreement, and managed only a dignified squeak as John picked him up, chuckling. After the initial surprise though, he found that being carried by John was definitely something he could get used to. Yes, they had a lot to talk about, but for now he was fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading. You can also find me [here](http://halloweensherlock.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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